A certain Greek writer tells us of some man who, in order to save his bees a troublesome flight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and placed before them the finest flowers he could select.

The poor bees made no honey.

Now, sir, if I were to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and giving him the flowers he should find himself.

Let us leave Nature alone for the present, and Nature's loving proxy, the watchful mother." Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on the grass and plucking daisies on the lawn, while the young mother's voice rose merrily, laughing at the child's glee.
"I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I see," said Mr.
Squills.
Agreeably to these doctrines, strange in so learned a father, I thrived and flourished, and learned to spell, and make pot-hooks, under the joint care of my mother and Dame Primmins.

This last was one of an old race fast dying away,--the race of old, faithful servants; the race of old, tale-telling nurses.